


Really Just A Bit Of Self-Indulgent Nonsense

by PinupGhoul



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Virginity, Love, Prostitution, Virginity Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-11-06 19:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11042772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinupGhoul/pseuds/PinupGhoul
Summary: A young Lieutenant on shore leaves experiences an unforgettable night.******Re-uploaded because for some reason, it decided to delete. Final chapter in the works!





	1. Chapter 1

Really Just A Bit Of Self-Indulgent Nonsense

Tonight, as on most nights, Bertie was hunting rats. The darkness called them out from their holes, taunting them away from the safety of their nests in the holds of the many great ships along the marina. In the salted air, their scuttling echoed down the docks, mingling with the slosh of low waves.

Bertie adjusted her corset, hiking it up over moon-pale flesh, retying the laces with sure fingers. She leaned across the knobby fence put up to prevent drunken sailors from slipping off the dock, scanning the night.

It was uncomfortably empty tonight, the marina holding half the ships it usually sheltered, a sign of storms. That's that, then, she thought, resting one heeled boot behind the other. They were out there, the rats, but they weren't on the move just yet. She hummed the bit of sea shanty she had caught from a passing sailor that morning, but gave up when she forgot the rest.

The dock creaked, and her mouth twitched. Good, not a wasted night after all. This was always the hard part, waiting for the rats to come to her. Her spine tingled with the need to turn around. Instead, she leaned further out, brushing her hair off one side of her neck.

"Miss?"

Hmm, rats with manners? Just one more moment, she promised herself, then turn.

"Er, never mind." The voice was low, British, timid.

She turned. Skipping over his face entirely, she started at the medal on his lapel, then continued downward to his muddied trousers and salt-sodden boots. An admiral? No, a Lieutenant; she could see it now in his waistcoat. Not bad at all, then.

"Looking for someone?" she asked, pushing off from the post to stand feet-to-feet. He was quite tall, enough that she faced his medal at eye level. She reached out to touch it, dragging her finger down the white brocade, down his chest, stopping at his waist. He flinched. Oh, this would be lovely.

"I," he made to walk away. He stopped. "Yes, yes I am."

"A fine gentleman like yourself ought to have a cozy little place somewhere." She snuck her hand beneath his coat, resting against his waistcoat. He burned warm beneath his clothes despite the night's breeze.

"I, I have a room at an inn. Not far from here." He couldn't meet her eyes, not that she'd bothered with his face just now. Eye contact was dangerous at this stage; she could wait until he was in no position to change his mind. Even without looking, she could feel the heat from his flushed cheeks. It's cute, really, she thought, those nerves.

"I can't wait." She took his hand, stroking it through his gloves. It was no wonder he was overheated, what with all those layers, a full coat and gloves in the middle of a Caribbean summer. He stumbled after her as she pulled him away from the docks, away from his chance to go back.

Luckily for him, the area was mostly abandoned. The few rats they passed went about their business, which was mostly drinking and snoring. Bertie tightened her grip on his hand, keeping a steady pace, though she could tell he was in a hurry. Poor thing must be new to this. That brought a smile to her painted lips.

Eventually, he paused before The Boatman's Inn. Extracting his hand from hers, he wrapped his arms around himself and rocked back on his heels. "Here we are," he mumbled.

"Going to invite me up?"

"Yes, of course, I'm sorry. Will you come up? Please?"

He shifted so awkwardly, she almost felt bad for teasing him. "After you," she said.

The Boatman's Inn, a dirty, scraggled little tavern, boasted four rooms on the second floor. The Lieutenant led her to the first on the right, shutting the door behind them, but not without glancing over his shoulder a number of times.

Bertie had been to the Boatman before, mostly with the rats, but once or twice on her own. She liked it well enough; no one made a face at her, though they all knew her well. It may be time to travel, she mused. The city was growing smaller, and soon she would be infamous.

"I have never, well," he started. Bertie took a seat in a threadbare chair by the window. Reaching over, she shut the curtain.

"I thought you looked too clean to be the sort," she said, unlacing her boots and sliding them off.

"And I wouldn't be doing this, only..."

"Don't make excuses, love. No need with me."

He had his back to her, so she could watch as he slid his coat from his shoulders. He folded it before setting it on the bedside table. With all he wore, taking off the coat did not reveal anything interesting, and so Bertie traced the lines of the room. That's where I...oh, yes, I remember this one quite well, she thought, and grinned.

The room was efficient if anything, with one double bed, a chair, table, and fireplace. Beneath her feet, the wood floor was splintered and worn, and all the linens had long ago been nibbled on by moths and mice alike. Still, a sailor needs a place to stay. Bertie knew all about sailors' needs.

He hadn't completely undressed, still in an undershirt and trousers. His hat was on the table, but he still wore his powdered wig. She couldn't help laughing as she came over to him, wrapping her hands around his waist.

"Come here so I can kiss you," she commanded.

He bent down, eyes closed, and she waited for the tiny peck on her lips. Instead, he caught her up, crushing their mouths together. His lips, already parted, were hot on hers, desperately seeking more heat still. One hand clutched at her short hair.

Not one to be deterred, she sucked his tongue into her mouth, tasting the booze on his breath. His warmth was surprising, both that of his mouth and that of his arms wrapped around her. He let out a small "mmm" as her hands traveled down from his waist to his buttocks, squeezing lightly. Breaking away, he gasped.

"I'm not sure where that came from. I do apologize."

Instead of replying, she looked to his face. His face, pale save for bright cheeks, was soft and round, typical of a young Englishman. There was a harshness to his eyes, a determination that had Bertie anticipating this night almost desperately. She recognized in him all the signs of a clean-cut military man, young and optimistic about the world. The white wig and shy manners suggested a wealthy upbringing, but that look in his eyes...it said he was not afraid to work for the success his station promised.

"I hope that's not all," she said, and she meant it. Lust could turn even a man like this so very hungry. Bertie found herself wanting every bit of that hunger. When he did not move to kiss her again, she broke away. He raised an eyebrow at her as she collected the tinder box from the mantle and made to start a fire. While it began to smoke, she wrapped her fingers into the bow of her black corset, tugging slowly. If I can make him look like that with a kiss, just imagine, she thought.

His attention was on her as she slipped the lacing from its bracket, loosening it just enough that her ample breasts bounced. His lips parted. She unclasped the front, meeting his eyes as she let the constraining corset fall to the floor. A shiver ran across his skin. He lifted one hand as though to touch her, though they were on opposite sides of the room now. Deftly, she unbuckled the clasp hidden in the waist of her skirt. Pretending to tend the fire, she bent down, letting the fabric slide off her thighs. Underneath, she was bare, round and pale, presenting herself to him.

Even from far away, she heard his gasp. She thought, I should be more careful, or I'll never get anywhere. This'll be over before I can begin.

Straightening up, she waltzed back over to him, swaying her hips just enough that his knees buckled.

"Why don't you lie down, love?"

He did, but not without looking between her and the bed, as if in disbelief of where he now found himself.

On her way, she blew out the candle on the table, leaving the room illuminated only faintly by firelight. "Now, that's a bit more romantic, don't you think?"

He nodded vaguely. She could see his nervous swallow as the bed creaked when she knelt onto it. "What do you like, love?" she asked in her lowest voice. The air make her skin prickle, but his hands, shy but explorative, were warm.

"I, well, I don't know. As I said, I've never..."

Her heart beat twice as fast. Never been with a woman? This was too good to be true. Though she always tried to remain professional, this time she could not help the twinge between her legs. So much for staying unaffected and in control.

"I'm terribly sorry," he began.

She kissed him soundly. "Don't be. I'd love to show you..."

"James."

"Hello, James," she said, straddling his waist. His trousers rubbed lightly against her thighs, and she hissed.

"And you are?" He tried so hard to sound polite, even with her naked above him, that she snorted a laugh.

"Beatrice. Pleased to meet you."

"Beatrice, can I kiss you?"

She scooted down, pressing their chests together. "I should hope so."

Back was the furious lust, just as soon as their mouths met. While he prodded at her tongue with his, she caught his hand, sliding it down her shoulder as she sat up. They separated, and he watched as she brought his hand to one breast, encouraging him. She pushed into his warm hand, mind reeling as she rubbed against his coarse clothes again.

He moaned low in his deep voice, taking over the task she had given him with gusto. James's hands, too smooth for him to have been a sailor all his life, cupped her breasts, lifting and kneading. She bit her lip when he pinched her nipple between two fingers, rolling it to a point.

"Is that...is that alright?" he gasped, cheeks glowing red.

He's so posh, she thought, laughing to herself. It was endearing, really. Wicked thoughts came to her mind, all those things she knew she'd have to try on him, if he didn't climax from this alone.

"Perfect, love. Let's get you undressed."

She helped him pull his undershirt off over his head, tossing it onto the floor. He frowned. "No time to fold it now," Bertie assured him, running her hands over newly exposed flesh. Like his face, his body was soft. So far as she could feel, only one part of him wasn't. She spread her fingers across his stomach, which was just a tad rounded. Her own stomach flip-flopped in response, and she wished she could squeeze her thighs together. As it were, they were spread across him, so she could do little more than feel the slip of slickness pool in her center.

"Lord, you're beautiful," she breathed, surprising herself.

He chuckled, and just for that, she had to kiss him again.

Unfastening his trousers, he slid them down his legs, kicking them off the bottom of the bed. He wore pants beneath, but they were thin enough she could see him clearly. Without more hesitation, she reached into his pants and pulled out his length. He pulsed in her hand, slim and long, already hard.

She stroked him lightly, more of a tickle than anything gratifying, but still he groaned, bringing a hand up to cover his face.

"Feel alright?"

"Hmmmm," was his only reply. His hips bucked upward. She held him in place with one hand and stroked him with the other. Velvety soft skin ran along her palm. She sighed softly, steadying herself.

Shimmying down him, she positioned herself, on her knees, between his legs. Here I am above him, she thought, licking her bottom lip, and him the blushing virgin. Lord have mercy, but she wanted him. Laying down a bit, she rested her elbows on the bed, on either side of his hips. Her mouth hung hot above him, inches away. She glanced up at him.

His eyelids had gone heavy, fluttering down over dark eyes. She watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he struggled to catch his breath.

"You alright up there?"

"Just...do something...please," he said, one hand coming up to brush through her hair.

Her tongue poked out to taste him, flicking once over the head of his cock.

"Ah!"

"Oh, that's cute," she smiled. He tried for a pout, but she wouldn't let him, sucking him in between her lips. His hips shook slightly as she sank down, inch by inch. Nearly the right size for her mouth, he rested hot on her tongue. This was her favorite, honestly. Nothing compared to the soft-hard heat filling her mouth, the slide of saliva over veined flesh. She took him in further, humming as she opened her throat. This may prove too much for the poor thing, she thought, though it didn't stop her from swallowing him down.

He writhed below her, pretty as anything, flushed and frantic. The wig he hadn't thought to remove had slipped sideways of its own accord, dark chestnut fringe tumbling out across his forehead. Sweat ran along his pale neck, pooling in the indent of his collarbone.

Sitting up and pulling off him with a slick sound, Bertie wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"You've stopped..."

"Easy, love, or this'll be over much too soon," she said, to him and to herself.

He whined. Her hand instantly flew down between her own legs. Sliding two fingers along her slit, she tensed, air catching in her lungs. Not yet, not yet. Pulling her fingers grudgingly away, she instead ran them across the crease where his leg met his pelvis. She teased them over him, tucking under to his sac, rubbing little circles.

"Mmm, please," he moaned, wiggling his hips in a way that was probably supposed to make her hurry up. Oh, now I'll just have to tease him. Her blush was hot under her skin, running from her cheeks to her pert nipples. Her insides were rising to a boil, steam building in her stomach, a dribble running down the inside of her thigh. She breathed a moan when a particularly devious thought slipped into her mind.

She brought one of the fingers that was teasing him up to her mouth, making sure his eyes were on her as she sucked on it, twirling it around lewdly.

"Wh-what are you...?" he huffed, barely able to speak through the panting.

"Shh, darling," she warned, bringing the slicked finger down past his cock, over the reddened heat of his sac, and between the cleft of his cheeks.

When she pressed against the puckered ring there, he jumped.

"You shouldn't..." he started, but stopped as soon as she started circling the rim gently. His head hit the bed.

"Oh, really?" she said, both in answer to his cut-off words, and her own surprise. It's one thing for me to love this, another entirely for him, she thought. The tight muscles of his hole trembled as she pressed in, pushing.

"This is...this is wrong," he said, softening a little and shifting up the bed.

"Tell me to stop and I will," she promised. She ducked down to kiss the head of his cock, licking up the droplet leaking from it.

Saying nothing, he whimpered. He flexed around her finger, body resisting her insistent push in, soft and hot and perfect. "Oh, god," she moaned, fire flaring up in her stomach. Risking a glance at his face, she almost came instantly.

His eyes were scrunched shut, mouth wide in a drawn-out "Ohhhh..." So much for the proper gentleman. His hands fisted in the sheets. "More," he managed.

How could she deny him? Bottoming out one finger entirely was nearly impossible in that tightness, but she persevered, feeling his vice grip squeeze around her. Slowly, dragging her finger along his inner walls, she pulled out, coming free only to hear him plead again, "More!"

Spitting on her fingers, Bertie was suddenly glad she had cut her nails short. Not that it made it any easier to fit in the two digits when one was hard enough.

"Here," she said, "Turn over, love."

Untangling their legs was not a smooth process, but after a minute, she was back between his legs, and he face down on the rough sheets. His wig had gotten lost somewhere in the turn; he pulled the ribbon from his hair, letting free long brown locks that just covered the back of his neck.

She ran the palm of her hand along the line of his spine, pressing down at the junction of his lower back and ass. His hips rocked as he rutted against the bed.

"Move up a tad, on your knees. Perfect."

Her lips soon traced the path of her hand, nipping at the swell of his ass as one hand slid under him, palming his stomach and sliding back around to press at his hole.

"I don't think," he puffed, "this is altogether proper."

"Mm, just relax," Bertie said, caressing his hip, "It'll make this so much easier."

The very tips of her index and middle finger breached him, and all propriety was forgotten.

"You're so tense; relax, love."

She could tell he was gritting his teeth when he said, "I am relaxed."

His body was nearly on fire under her touch as she pushed down on that spot at the bottom of his spine, forcing him to loosen his muscles. She slid in just past her nails, feeling the unbearably tight pull and push of his tight grip. "Ah!" he gasped, legs shaking.

The room narrowed to her fingertips, to the heat of his body, everything else fading out. Who's teasing whom? She wondered, wanting so much to touch herself, but having no free hand. The one not currently sinking slowly deeper into him was holding his cheeks apart, so the best she could manage was clenching her own inner muscles.

"You're going to have to relax if you hope to take this any further," she said, voice rough. Her fingers met resistance, and though she pushed at a steady pace, she hadn't yet made it to the first knuckle. "Here, let's try this: sit back a little, toward me, that's it."

"I don't think I can."

"Come on, easy...you're doing fine."

He cried out when she fully sank into him, pressing his face into the bed. The sheets muffled the sound, but she still could faintly hear the little "Ah! Ah! Ah!" he made when she started scissoring her fingers.

I can't do this anymore, she thought, the fire between her legs too much to stand. Pulling out just the slightest bit, she rotated her fingers, and watched him tremble all over.

"Mmphh, please," he begged.

Bertie smirked. She certainly hadn't lost her touch. Twisting her fingers back again, she made sure to hit the same spot.

He shouted incoherently into the bed.

One more time, and he was tightening around her, a low cry of "Ohhhh," spilling from his lips. Pulling out a little quicker than she probably ought, judging by the way he quaked, she used her other hand to circle her clit, pressing down then snapping up harshly.

Looking over at him, panting and red, ass in the air, pushed her over the edge. She shook, staying silent but thinking, "Ohshitohshitohshit!" as she felt the shock, then flood, then relief.

When she could once again move, she did so, sliding off the bed and grabbing for her clothes. He had flipped over, and already covered himself with the soiled sheets, still trying to preserve what was left of his modesty.

"How was it, then?" she asked, fastening her skirt once more around her plump waist.

"Incredi—are you leaving?"

"Well, not quite yet. I haven't been paid." I'd almost forgotten I was supposed to be paid...not good, she thought to herself.

He ran a hand through his hair. "I, well, I have the room for the night, if you'd like to stay."

"Oh, I never stay," she said. But surely just this once wouldn't hurt...

"I see."

"Besides, you'd be cross with me in the morning, and I can't have that."

"I am a bit podgy, come to think of it."

See? Of course there was a perfectly good reason why she ought to go and never look back. He'd been drinking, lost his better judgement, but surely would find it in the light of day.

"It's just...it's rather late," he mumbled, eyes half-lidded, "And you'd be safer not to be out."

She smiled. "Quite the gentleman." Standing in the doorway, she reminded herself she really needed to be gone. Somehow, her feet weren't paying any attention.

"Please?"

"Oh, alright." Undoing the skirt once more, she came to sit beside him on the bed, pulling her knees up to her chest. "At least let me under the sheet."

He glanced warily at her as she pressed her bare body against his, holding his back to her chest, but either did not mind, or was too exhausted to fight her.

"Mm, this is nice," he said, letting the drink and the sex go to his head.

She completely agreed, but said nothing in reply. I can always leave before he wakes. No harm done. Kissing his shoulder, she settled in, drifting off to sleep with a satisfied smile.


	2. Hedonistic Drivel: A Continuation

The muggy night pressed heavily around her, hot and wet like the breath of some enormous creature. Sweat or humidity—she couldn't tell—dripped down the back of her neck. It sank into her shoes, making her high heeled boots slip off as she walked along the dock. The wet wood groaned beneath her feet, ancient planks threatening to collapse into the sea like many a sailor who once walked them. Bertie, too, was nearly ready to collapse. From her pocket, she produced the last of her coins. She bounced them in her palm. It wasn't much, but she'd already paid for her room for the night. Surely by now she'd earned herself a drink.

Mind made up, she made a line to the nearest pub. Here in Tortuga, it was harder to find a spot without a pub than one with, so thankfully she hadn't long to walk in her slippery boots. The door jingled open. Not that anyone could hear it over the sound of the place. Seamen of all sorts, pirates, merchants, navy men, were strewn about in various states of intoxication. From one corner, a filthy band played a raucous tune; several sailors had joined in singing, though not a one seemed to know the words. Brawls had broken out from one end of the pub to the other. Every so often, a punch actually connected with a body, which caused a great deal of cursing and the tipping over of a few tankards. The floor was sticky with ale and other substances she didn't care to place as she made her way to the bar and surrendered her last earnings. She downed her tankard in one gulp, tapping it on the worn counter for a refill.

"Not this time." the bartender said, not even looking at her as he moved onto the next patron clamoring for another drink.

"Shit." Well, it was still early enough. Perhaps she could persuade any one of the drunken sailors to follow her into the back in exchange for a handful of coins. She'd had almost no luck tonight on the docks; she would have scouted out one of the pubs earlier, had it not been so damned hot. The closeness of all the sweaty bodies, shoved haphazardly together inside a building, was very nearly suffocating.

She pushed her way through the crowd, ducking under the flailing arms of brawling men, scooting out of the way of barmaids with their trays of sloshing ale. Bertie recognized a few of those girls from the dock. Maybe I should think of getting a second job, she mused.

Finding an empty spot beside the stairs, she leaned back and waited. It was entertaining enough, watching the fights. Someone always seemed to spill a drink on just the wrong person. Stealing a drink off a sleeping man would be easy enough, but she knew Tortuga too well to trust any of its occupants to be without some sort of disease. True as it was that that was an occupational hazard, she much preferred that if she was to die of something contagious, she should catch it doing something she loved.

She smiled idly as a scruffy looking man drew his sword at a one-armed pirate, trying his very best to seem threatening. This was made more difficult by the fact that neither of them were at all steady on their feet. The first man swayed dangerously, sword seeking flesh but instead finding one of the wooden support beams. A couple of others, a bit more sober than the duelers, grabbed him from behind, restraining his arms so he could do little more than wriggle.

"Unhand me!" he exclaimed, struggling against them but getting nowhere. His voice, slurred with anger and drink, was nonetheless sharp and low. Bertie recognized it instantly.

There had been many years and many customers between, but she certainly hadn't forgotten the young admiral she'd had the pleasure of corrupting. Had she not heard him speak, she wouldn't have placed him as the same man. Time had not been kind to the gentle-faced, soft-edged boy; his jaw was set hard, the filthy remnants of his powdered wig dangled from tangled brown locks. He wore his navy uniform, though the gold buttons had long since been stolen or bartered away, and the once-white brocade peeled from his tattered coat.

She stepped forward, hardly knowing why. "James?" she asked. His bottle-green eyes were drowned with drink, and they passed over her face without a trace of recognition. Startled, she stumbled backward. The men continued their fruitless battle. James, all military tact long gone, freed one arm to swing at his opponent. As soon as the others let him go, he overbalanced, tripping into the man he had tried to attack. The man's fist collided with James' jaw with a crack. He slumped down, unconscious.

Bertie flinched, finding that she was watching more intently than she ought. She saw as the others checked him over for valuables. They must have found something worth their time, since the one-armed man tucked a small drawstring bag into his vest. This set off another squabble, the men who had restrained James feeling they ought to have a share in the spoils. Thus distracted, they paid little mind to Bertie as she knelt beside the fallen man.

She tried to shake him awake. "James?" He stirred a little, blinking and trying to sit up. Her hand on his shoulder, she helped him into a sitting position. He's so pitiful, she thought, her heart twisting at the sight of him, some battered fallen angel in the midst of this place of sin. She chastised herself for her flight of fancy. "Can you stand?"

With her help, he managed, though he clung to her arm for support.

"Have a room?" she asked, tugging him toward the stairs. What he needed was a place to lie and recover. And maybe, she noticed, the filth of his coat coming off on her arm, a change of clothes. She led him up the staircase, as she had with so many sailors before. It's not as though he'll be able to pay; she thought of the men fighting over his coin-purse and frowned. Still, she didn't hesitate in ushering him into her current abode.

Her room was the typical naked wooden inn room, built with a fireplace whose chimney had long since crumbled into a pile of brick. A large, stained bed took up most of the space, except for the small sectioned area that contained a copper tub and chamberpot.

He swayed on his feet, near falling over backward. Bertie put a gentle hand on his chest, pushing him back until he sank down onto the bed. He fell onto his back, blinking away sleep and confusion.

"Hold on just a mo'," she said, setting about starting a fire. With the crumbled chimney, it would do little good heating the room, but it would serve to heat a few pots of water for the bath. He looked like he could use it. She would have to make do with reheating the cold water already standing in the bath. It was still clear as she scooped it into the kettle, so it was good enough. As she let the first kettle heat, she turned to him.

"You alright, love?"

"Hm? Oh, yes. Fine." He seemed lost, as if he had just awoken from a dream.

"How about I help you out of those clothes?" It wasn't really a question, just a statement to motivate him to stand. She slid what was left of his coat from his shoulders, then started on his vest. It was odd, she thought, how similar this felt to the last time they met.

"What are you doing?" he asked, shaking as though suddenly back in his own body. He held her hands away from him, eyes finally focusing. "...You..."

"Remember me?" She met his gaze. It was difficult to pinpoint exactly the feeling in her gut at that moment, but she supposed it was disappointment. Now his conscious would get the better of him, now he would push her aside and leave without looking back. That's not good. No sense in getting invested.

"Beatrice?" he asked. She could tell her name was only a guess on his lips. Still, it was enough to make her crack a grin.

"Hello again, James." The hands that held hers at bay softened to entwine with her fingers. If sayings were true, and much could be said about a man by the state of his hands, James's story was written plain as if it were in ink upon his palms.

The curves of his thumb were rope-calloused, burnt from the slide of slick sail lines slipping away in hurricane winds. Between otherwise tanned fingers, little pale spots peeked through, soft like she remembered from the first time they met.

One of those telling hands parted from hers to tangle in the laces of her corset, and suddenly he and she were fighting to undress the other as fast as possible. There was no telling what shifted so instantly between them, but they found themselves frantic, making up for lost time. Shortly, he was down to breeches, and she, cotton bloomers and a loosened corset. She stepped back to look at him.

His chest, now bared, was streaked with dirt and littered with thin sword-edge scars. She made a plan to kiss each and every one before the night was over.

He reached out for her, but she evaded him, skipping over to the kettle and changing out the water instead. From beside the fireplace, she watched him as another kettle heated, the room silent save the sound of waves from beyond the walls, and the mounting whistle of hot water. All the while, neither spoke, just watched.

When the water reached a tolerable warmth, Bertie finally approached him, leading him gently by the arm until he stood at the copper tub's edge. Before he could protest, she shimmied his breeches down, undoing the buttons with a practiced flourish.

Now completely nude, James began to remind her of the young admiral she met long ago. His wind-chapped cheeks reddened, and he would not meet her eye.

"Oh, come on," she chided, gesturing to the water while tugging his arm, "Nothing I haven't seen before."

That hardly seemed to cheer him, but he stepped lightly into the water just the same. At his height, he could only sink in to his shoulders if he raised his feet from the water. Still, Bertie assumed it had been some time since he had seen the luxury of a bath, and something was better than nothing.

For a moment, he rested there, at peace, but then some old instinct kicked in, and he glanced around, looking for ways to be Productive. He reached for the sliver of lye soap, but Bertie beat him to it, and set about lathering a cloth.

"Let me take care of you. You look as though you need it."

He cringed at this, but did not stop her as she started smoothing slow, soapy circles across the plain of his back. The bathwater, now comfortably heated, lulled James deeper into his intoxication.

Flickers from the hearth lit the room in a muted glow, reflecting the copper tub in rays across the walls. It turned James's skin gold, and he looked for all the world like a statue. She traced along the lines of his shoulders, dipping the cloth down across his chest, over his stomach, down his ribs. His eyes were closed, so still he may have been sleeping; she took the chance to study him.

Seeing him in repose, Bertie realized she had been wrong in comparing him to a statue. His harsh edges faded with the water, blending in muted gold and grey shadow, a masterful watercolor. On weathered cheeks, dark lashes rested, and above them, thin, straight brows finally pulled loose from a scowl. She observed the line where the bathwater met his squared chin, little ripples licking along his jaw the way she wanted to.

She had to rouse herself. "You awake?" she asked, mostly to him. He cracked one eye open, a smile gracing the very corner of his mouth.

"Hardly."

"Sit up, then." She ran the cloth down his back, then up again, back over his shoulders, down his chest. "Let me get at your hair."

He ducked under while she scrubbed it through with soap, the matted tangle of ashy brown quickly shaping up to be a rich, wavy curtain of hair. Once rinsed, she left him to ruminate in the bubbles while she found a somewhat clean sheet beneath the bed.

James said very little as she wrapped the sheet around him, leading him back to the bed. He sat, and she behind him, working out the knots in his hair with her fingers. Her corset, already loose as her morals, slid down the few extra inches needed to bare her breasts; they pressed hotly against his back on either side of his spine as she detangled.

Her hands began to stray, leaving his hair to dance across his neck, fluttering against his throat. His breath hitched. She felt the rise of his chest under her palms.

"Do you think we might...?" he said.

She nearly jumped, almost forgetting he could speak. The low rumble of his voice, when they were pressed so neatly together, shook her to the core.

"Might what?" She hoped beyond hope he would say what she thought. Only he's far too tired, she reminded herself, and hasn't any money. And I don't care who he is...he can't get anything for nothing.

Turning around, he tried to meet her gaze over his shoulder, but met her mouth instead. Despite the awkward position, they managed to work each other up to heavy breathing. Her tongue slid into his mouth; his slurred against her lips like his drunken words. When her hands wrapped around his chest, he sighed into her mouth.

As she stood, readjusting herself to stand between his legs at the foot of the bed, she unclasped her corset and let it fall to the floor. Her bloomers followed, and soon nothing remained between them. From this angle, she could kiss him properly. She took full advantage of the opportunity, attacking his lips and pushing his back down onto the mattress.

Straddling his slim hips now, she parted their kiss, and said with a laugh, "This what you had in mind?"

He grinned a sloppy smile, "This'll do."

When they kissed once more, she tasted something new on his tongue. The last time they met, she had lost her better judgement from just the expression in his eyes; his determination, his drive, his ambition, had driven her lust-mad. Now, she tasted desperation in his kiss, a hunted man. He was no longer fighting to win, only fighting to survive.

Was it pity that led her to take him in hand, to guide him slowly into her core, without concern for money or self-control? She wanted to think so. That was such a more appealing option than thinking she had been overcome. Her mind felt muzzy, as though she had been the one drinking. Still, through the fog, she clearly heard his cry as she seated herself upon him, taking every inch of his slender length. His head tipped back, wet hair plastered to his forehead, and for a moment, he just breathed.

Then he started to move, and it was she who cried out. His hands clenched her full hips, finding purchase to pull her closer, slamming his pelvis hard against her. She sat up a little, letting him slide partway from her, and letting him thrust back up to fill her. In all this time, he hasn't ever been inside a woman? There wasn't any mystery he was unexperienced. His shaking movements just missed that sensitive spot, his thrusts just a touch too shallow. She had seen it before; he operated on instinct, some ancient urge to move, to seek heat. Grinding down, she gave it to him.

"Beatrice!" The "Bea" came out in a bit of a squeak.

She guided his hands up to her breasts, and this time, he knew what to do. She arched into his touch, wriggling her hips to get a reaction.

He moaned low, snapping his hips up for more friction. Bertie braced one hand on his stomach, the other, between her own thighs. She teased herself, earning little electric zaps that followed the pace of his movements. His member dragged along her walls every time he pulled out, leaving her wet, and him desperate. She let out a soft sound and let the sensations go to her head, surroundings fading out to nothing but the joining of their bodies.

As if in a dream, she glanced over and saw his face, lips pinked, cheeks flushed, mouth agape and panting. She saw little else, but felt everything. He sped up, losing what scarce rhythm he had built, plunging within her depths and withdrawing, as if it was the only thing he knew.

James whispered nonsense, mostly encouragements, as far as she could tell. "Oh! Perfect, that's...that's perfect. Oh, yes, there, like that..."

Her own thoughts, she kept in her mind, only moans escaping. If she let slip his name once or twice, she would never admit it. Finally, all rational thought fled. Only feeling remained. Release flooded her, washing out her mind with white electric waves. She clenched hard around him, and he followed over the edge. His body tensed and pulsed beneath hers. The two clung to each other, tossed by the storm.

Little by little, the maelstrom subsided, and the waters calmed. Mind spinning, she flopped atop him, their sweaty chests together, heartbeats all entangled. It was some time before she could speak again. "It seems we've wasted a bath."

What may have been intended as a chuckle came out as a yawn. He wrapped his arm around her back, tracing lazy circles along her shoulder blades as they both caught their breath. In the heat of the stifling Caribbean night, it was far too hot to hold each other, but far too hot to expend the energy to move off. She listened to the night birds and sailors crying out, just outside the small windows. Sex-hazy and exhausted, she felt for a moment that she was living in a golden bubble, that anything she said was without consequences. "You know," she began, speaking against his chest, "We've met before, even if you don't remember it."

One eye peeked open. "I remember." His voice was impossibly low.

"No, I mean, before the last time."

"What do you mean?" He went back to closing his eyes, barely holding on to the waking world.

She cupped the side of his face. "I was young, then. London. There I was, out in the snow, fingers turning blue, when who should come to my rescue but a handsome gentleman." She smiled at him, though she knew he didn't see. "Must've been just learning his way around, fresh in uniform. Now, this gentleman is waiting for someone outside a shop. Saw me there and bowed to me, he did. Like he'd never seen a game-pullet before. And then he asked me-"

"If you would accept my gloves." He sat up, nearly knocking her off. She settled back on her heels and gauged his expression.

"It was your voice I recognized," she admitted, not able to meet his eyes. Her chest ached with an unfamiliar pain.

"All these years..." he began, but then trailed off. There was nothing else to say.

She scooted over to lie beside him, curling against his back. "You couldn't've known it, but not a week before, I'd lost my parents. All alone in the world, and there you are, like a wish in a fairy-story." She knew she wasn't making perfect sense at this point, but the words wouldn't stop. "The next time I saw you, you were all dressed up, just stepping out on the docks. I didn't know til the next morning it was you."

As the rosy afterglow faded, regret blossomed in her stomach. She closed her eyes tight, as if that would shut out the memories that seemed intent on haunting her. Being with James like this was...what was it? Pity, she reminded herself, nothing more. I feel bad for the poor thing, and, well, he'd almost a friend now, isn't he? It's an act of kindness. A small, sharp truth made its way up her throat, nearly choking her as she fought to keep it down. "You saved my life."

Bertie held her breath, listening for his response.

He breathed deeply, evenly. Asleep.


	3. More Cheap Gratification

The sinking sun illuminated the masts of the great many ships bobbing in the harbor, some coming, some going, most simply trying to stay afloat. They sprung up, a floating forest of mast-trees and rigging-vines, and little silhouetted creatures skittered throughout.

In the midst of the noise and bustle, Bertie sat on a barrel, swinging her legs. With one hand, she split an orange into sections. With the other, she shaded her eyes, seeking.

He's not here, y'know, a part of her mind said.

She silently answered it. I don't know who you're talking about. I'm looking for customers is all. It was near impossible to pick sides, so she ignored both, popping another orange section into her mouth.

'He'. James. The last time she'd seen him, he was asleep on her pillow as she crept out the door to be alone in the starry dark. That was near-on two years ago. Even if she had been searching for him, which she certainly hadn't, she didn't truly expect to see him again.

Still, life went on. The sun would soon set, and that meant more business for her, should she manage to pull her attention away from the docks and the past.

She hopped down, heading inland to find a pub with rooms for let. Experience had taught her that the most important part of luring paying sailors back to her place was to have a place. Finding a room in the heat of passion meant extra work. Extra work meant more time for her clients to sober up and realize their ship was leaving without them. Which meant Bertie didn't get paid.

That in mind, she marched up to the doors of The Squeaky Wheel and came face to face with the "No More Rooms" sign (which had recently replaced the "No Vacancies" sign after too many patrons had complained the pub "had it out for those with no schoolin', and what couldn't read no pomp nonsense").

Her inquiries at Bridey's Inn, The Rat And Castle, and McElliot's yielded the same results, that is to say, none. Must be a whole fleet in tonight, she thought, a few hundred desperate sailors fresh off the boat. If she could only secure a room, her night would be all well and good.

As she turned to leave yet another full pub, a flash of gold and—more striking in this filthy place—pure white, caught her eye. Her heart flipped before she could stop it.

The man in uniform, when she gave him more than a cursory glance, couldn't look less like James if he'd tried. Broad, barrel-chested, and wearing a salt-and-pepper mustache, he wore Captain's colors and a feathered hat. Probably about fifteen years James's senior, he stood talking to a couple unsavory looking characters.

She could do worse than a Captain.

Had someone timed her from the moment she approached him, all false giggles and swaying hips, to the moment he—slumped and satisfied and buttoning his breeches—handed over a pocketful of coins, they would have found not quite ten minutes had passed before she was on her merry way.

Bertie went back to the docks. The pink-tinged sunset had been replaced with the low blue glow of twilight, and the harbor's water rolled in in lazy waves. All the way out to the horizon, as far as she could see, a ship dropped anchor. A handful of rowboats floated off from it like dandelion seeds in a strong wind. She watched as they neared the docks, smoothing her skirt and readying herself. Not that any one of them is going to find a room, she thought. Ah, well, back alleys suit me just fine.

When the first rowboat's crew disembarked, she felt her throat tighten at the sight of their pristine naval uniforms. At some point, she'd have to admit to herself that those were her weakness. But for tonight, she'd content herself with the explanation that navy men brought with them navy money. She felt debauched and ready; the rouge, lipstick (blood red), and dark eye liner she applied this morning had mostly melted in the Caribbean heat, and her...transaction with the Captain did nothing for the lipstick situation. She looked the part.

By the nervous, fresh faces of the shore party, Bertie gauged most were on their first real voyage, and no doubt their first time in Tortuga. The poor things. It would be the decent thing to welcome them properly, and Bertie was all about decency. Well, no time like the present.

Throwing on her usual charm, she approached the men as a group. No sense in targeting one and scaring him off. "Evening, boys."

Two of the men closest to her backed up. One stayed. A few of the men in the rear of the group turned to stare at her, half-interested, half-afraid.

"Evening, miss," one of them, a gangly, tall fellow, said. His crew-mate smacked his arm.

"Don't be so polite, Daniel. See what she is? They have no need for manners. Don't talk to her."

Daniel gave an apologetic glance.

"Oh, I don't know. Manners will get you most anywhere," she pushed out her chest, "And where they won't, coins will." She fixed Daniel with a feral grin. "How about I show you, charming?"

He took her offered hand gingerly, his crew-mates cheering him on, all except the one who'd told him not to talk to a woman like her. They headed up the dock, following the trail of pub lanterns.

And then there was a hand on her shoulder. The grip—firm, gloved, insistent—froze her where she stood. Constables? In Tortuga?

She spun on her heel and stared up into James's face. All the air in her lungs left in a gasp. Those green eyes, the same she saw hovering in her mind when she awoke in the middle of the night, passed over her face, stoic. He didn't remember her. She thought she might throw up.

"Excuse me. These men are on duty, under my command. They are not at liberty to speak with any of your profession."

He could have hit her and it would have stung less. That voice in her head raged, screaming Who are you, about to cry over a man? Over a customer?! That's all he is. Remember that. That didn't stop her eyes from watering. Daniel's hand fell from hers, and he scurried sheepishly back to the crew.

James gave a disapproving glance to the lot of them. He straightened his new-looking uniform and cleared his throat, which was enough to make his crew hurry off out of his way.

As soon as they were out of earshot, his glare softened. "Meet me here in an hour?"

Relief surged through her. "Hurry back." 'Hurry back'? But she was too giddy to be bothered with her own mind's judgement.

Since the last night she'd seen him and confessed just what his kindness had meant to her, Bertie had been plagued by a thousand imaginings of the next time they'd meet. Now that it was finally happening, all she could clearly think of was the lack of room. Perhaps we'll just walk along the city streets and talk. She flinched at the direction her thoughts were going. Ever since the last night they had shared, in fact, her thoughts were troublingly singleminded, as if he was a maelstrom in the center of her mind, pulling down every other thought, dragging her attention back to him.

She wouldn't deny she had chosen favorites among clients in the past; some were easier on the eyes, some kinder, some simply had a concept of personal hygiene. This, though...James...was harder to figure. She'd like to think she fancied his money (surely a titled gentleman had a fortune to match his station), but she'd taken him to her bed when he hadn't a penny to his name. Feelings complicated her profession. Feelings complicated any profession.

So lost in her musings, Bertie didn't notice the encroaching dark as twilight washed out with the tide. The half moon ducked behind clouds fat with the promise of a tropical storm. She stepped out of the way of sailors passing through, making making herself unavailable for the night.

Surely he'd return soon. Taking up her well-practiced habit of watching for approaching uniforms, she shifted back and forth impatiently. Just how's he got that uniform back, anyway? Not that I don't prefer the posh version...she smiled, remembering the night she had corrupted him.

As if summoned by her dirty thoughts of him, James appeared at the end of the dock. He glanced furtively around to be sure they were alone. Can't have the good, clean Admiral caught in harlot's company.

In lieu of greeting, he whispered, "Come with me."

Hurrying after him in the dark felt like keeping secrets. Her breath caught in her throat and she found she couldn't speak. She didn't even bother wondering where he was taking her, just followed in a trance, staying close to his side as though he might escape at any time. Their winding path through the decaying backstreets opened up suddenly to a dark, rocky coast. He climbed down the ragged edge, surprisingly nimbly, and was out of sight.

"James!" She found her voice, but lost him.

"Follow me," he called.

Carefully, she picked her way toward the sound of his voice. The stony ground shifted perilously beneath her feet, and she nearly fell face down into a sandy cave. Catching herself, she surveyed the scene; the rocks became scarce, the dark coast opened onto sand and beach, sheltered from the view of the city. Compared to Tortuga proper (if such a term could be used), this was another world. It was their world where no others could see them as they sank down in the sand, bathed in patchy moonlight.

At first, they needed no words. She kissed him, held him close to her racing heart, the crashing waves echoing in her mind like the sweetest music. He clung to her, tangling a hand in her hair, pulling her in, drowning in her.

When they surfaced for air, she met his eyes. Lust-darkened, deep sea green, they stared into hers with a hint of the determination that first had captivated her. She wanted to ask all the questions she'd held onto for the past two years, but all that she managed was, "Mind doing that again?"

His stoic expression cracked into a smile, and he captured her lips again, laying her gently back until she rested against the powdery sand. Now where's this control been hiding? she wondered, before letting her mind numb completely.

When he stood, she barely stopped herself from clinging to his coat. "Where are you—?"

He offered his hand and pulled her up. "Join me for a swim?"

She grinned. "But I haven't the right clothes."

"Then go without," he said, and laughed.

She'd never heard him laugh before—the low rumble made her all the more eager to help him undress.

His coat hit the sand, then his ascot, waistcoat, stockings and shoes. She pulled them off with one hand, unfastening her skirt with the other. Stripping down, she realized just how warm the night air was, as she hardly felt it on her skin.

Bare to the world, they waded into the ocean, until the chill water obscured him from his chest down, and lapped at her shoulders. He kissed her again. She held his waist with both hands, pressing her chest to his.

"This is different."

"Oh?"

"You're very sure of yourself."

He looked past her and she saw the weariness in his eyes. "When you've lived through as much as I have, you learn not to waste time."

She pulled him back to the moment, making sure he truly saw her. "And this is you not wasting time?"

He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her so she could twine her legs around him. His palms ran down the length of her back, cupping at her buttocks, keeping her above sea level. Their kiss tasted of saltwater; she easily imagined drowning in it, gasping for air and finding nothing but the endless, dizzying salt of his mouth on hers. It was not a fate she hoped to be rescued from.

So distracted, she hardly noticed when he positioned himself and entered her, slow and even. She gasped as he sank into her to the hilt, clinging ever tighter so as not to float away completely. He cried out, hid his face in the crook of her neck, barely above the waves. With every crest, she lifted, sliding nearly off him and taking a deep breath. With every trough, she sat back down, breasts bouncing against his chest.

Birdsong, still present in the night, cut through the air. They both laughed. All the tension, save that which was building lazily in her stomach, left her body. She clenched around him just to watch his eyes darken. He gasped; all the while a devious light came into his expression.

"How do you—?" he began, one hand moving up to her chest. It ran along between her breasts, over her soft stomach, lingering at the place her thighs met. One curious finger ghosted gentle circles around her outer lips, underwater in coarse curls.

Bertie shivered, trying to maintain enough composure to give him a solid answer. It wasn't often her clients paid a mite of attention to her own pleasure, but she supposed he hardly counted as a client anymore. What's that make him, then? More of a lover?

To stop her mind, she took his hand in hers. His other hand and her tightly clenched legs were the only points keeping her from ducking under the water's surface. "Let me show you." The words left her mouth in a rush, desperate and hurried.

He nodded, suddenly serious, as he parted her lips, tracing between them with a fingertip. She pushed his hand upward, so he slid up against her sensitive nerves. She bit her lip.

Her reaction made his mouth fall open—she squirmed under both his expression of wonderment, and the stuttered stroking of his fingers. Bringing her hands back up to rest on his shoulders, she tilted her head back and let him experiment.

"Is this alright?" he asked.

Her breath hitched when she tried to speak, so she just nodded.

With index and middle finger, he framed her clit, and then slid his fingers lower, exploring the convergence of his length and her entrance. He thrust up into her a little just to feel the slide from that angle.

"Oh, God," he moaned.

"How's about we take this to the shore?" she suggested, reluctantly letting him shift out of her as she found her footing.

He followed her, a haze over his features. He hadn't closed his mouth, she noticed, and he looked short of breath in his lust. Over the rocks, up the side of the cove, and onto the soft, moon-bleached sand. Once more he lay above her, chest pressed hard to hers, hands in wet hair, kisses demanding.

"James!" She needed him, anything he could give. Her body was wound so tight it felt ready to snap. His eyes found hers and were filled with...hesitancy?

She sat up a little on her elbows to get a better look at him. He was blushing.

"May I...may I try something?"

She wanted to scream, "Anything at all! Just do something!" but instead she said, "What is it, love?"

His eyebrows knitted together. "May I...?" He couldn't form whatever he wanted to ask in real words, so he tried to show her, kissing a path along her pale neck. He mouthed across her collarbones, between her breasts, down across her stomach, and then she understood.

"Oh. Oh. Yes, you may."

Her stomach flipped at the thought, her entire lower body tensing.

His lips met the seam below her stomach and above her pelvis.

Her breathing stopped.

He parted her folds.

She couldn't think.

He tasted her.

She nearly burst.

Unsure, he flicked his tongue along the path he'd been mapping with his fingers, not applying any pressure.

She spread her legs so he might lie between them, the curtain of his hair obscuring what she imagined was a downright sinful view.

He worked with the same determination with which he kissed, a lifetime of repressed passion finding an outlet at last. Tracing between soft, slick folds with the tip of his tongue, then flattening it and pressing hard on her clit, he made short work of bringing her blood to a boil.

Her hands found no purchase in the dry sand; all she could do was tangle them in his hair, holding him in place. Not that he seemed to want to be anyplace else.

James's full attention was on her—he glanced up at her face, his lips glistening and swollen, his eyes dark. Making sure she was watching, he licked a slow stripe along her slit, eyes connecting with hers as he did so.

She could hardly keep them open; she wanted nothing more than to close them, to let the world fade out and feel the waves wash over her, and yet, watching him, bare body pressed into their bed of sand, felt like the only thing she was capable of. Her core flexed and loosened in time with the swipes of his tongue. When he found the spot that made her writhe, he sucked hard.

It was like falling overboard. The ground dropped out from beneath her and she was tumbling down, hitting the surging waves. She plunged into her climax, gripping his hair as she lost all sense.

Before she could even fully return to her body, his mouth was on hers, tasting of salt water, hers and the ocean's. She kissed him until she could no longer distinguish their flavors.

"Was that alright?" he asked, sitting back. His expression and tone showed worry, but his body was impatiently reminding him of much more pressing concerns.

Hazy, she smiled. "That was perfect. But now let's take care of you, shall we?"

The look that crossed his face (fleeting, lips parted slightly, brows raised) suggested to Bertie that he had forgotten entirely about his own pleasure. Touching, really, she thought, coherence making its slow return to her mind. "Now kiss me."

He did as told, the both of them lying on their sides, bodies lined up. They tangled lazily, her hand snaking down between them to grip him, tugging slow strokes. He jutted his hips toward her, all the while pulling her tongue into his mouth, supporting her head with his arm. Her name, as well as other small sounds, fell from his lips when they were no longer on hers. Their pale bodies made odd shadows in the light of the moon, constantly rocking in and out of dark patches. The darkness and the rocky cliffs obscured them completely from view, but Bertie couldn't've cared if all of Tortuga was watching them. Even in the cool night breeze, his flesh burned in her grip. His heart pounded—she felt it when she braced her palm against him. The way he bowed his head, eyes shut so tight, made her heart squeeze.

She hadn't even realized he released until he gasped a quiet "Oh", and sank boneless beside her. Kissing his forehead, she stood on shaky legs, brushing off sand and heading for the water to rinse off. Ducking under, the rush of the waves washed away all distractions. For the briefest moment, she could think clearly. What now? she wondered. There's no door to shut behind me. The thought of redressing and going off on her own, without even the promise of a bed, was not one she relished. Do I stay? Glancing over her shoulder, she committed the scene to memory; he lay on his back, half in moonlight, sand reflective where it clung to his thighs. His chest rose and fell more easily now, slower now that the urgency was gone. Is that what this is, then? He's just trying to fill his needs whenever the urge strikes, and I'm convenient. It took her a long, bitter moment to remember that was her job. All this time, it hadn't ever occurred to her that he might not be as invested as she was. Invested. There's a good word for it.

When she returned to shore, he still hadn't moved, though his body was prickled with gooseflesh from the wind, now that the fires of lust were dying down. She sat beside him, pulling her knees up to her chest. Those negative thoughts, once surfaced, superseded the relief of climax.

He sat up immediately. "Are you alright? Beatrice?"

"You're an admiral now, yeah?" she said, not looking at him.

He frowned. "Yes..."

"So you've got to go be respectable. Wife and kids, that sort of thing."

"Where is this coming from?" He tried to get her to look at him, moving her chin in his direction with a gentle hand.

"It's true though."

He sighed. "Yes, it's true. I expect they'll try to pair me off the second I step onto the docks. I've a role to fill."

A bubble of hope rose in her chest. "But you haven't got a wife now."

"Almost had, but no."

She came out of defensive position, settling in, encouraging him to continue his explanation. Something in his tone told her it would be a long one, but that suited her just fine. The longer he told his story, the longer he stayed with her. "Perhaps you ought to start from the beginning," she suggested, when he wasn't offering up any words.

"Where is the beginning?"

"Start when we first met."

"That first night when you...?"

"No, the first time. In London," she insisted. "With the gloves."

A faint smile flickered across his face, then he became serious. "Alright. I was young, recently employed in the Navy. That day we had been instructed on how to perform inspections, and by the end, most of the men were freezing, so our superior suggested we have a drink to warm up. Well, you know what happened then; you were there."

"You give your gloves to every woman you meet on the corner?"

"A rare few." He smiled, and it stuck.

"And then you moved up?"

"And then I moved up. I became Lieutenant, which is when we met once again."

"'When I defiled your innocence," she said matter-of-factly.

He flinched. "Anyway, you must have been my good luck charm. As soon as I returned to Port Royal, I saw a future lined up for me. I was to marry the daughter of the town's Governor, who I had known for some time."

"What was her name?" Bertie interjected.

"Elizabeth Swann."

"Did you love her?"

"I did."

"Do you still love her?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation.

She shut her eyes as a wave of hurt washed over her, but she managed to force it down before he noticed. "And will you marry her, once you return to Port Royal?"

This time it was he who paled under the weight of some internal conflict. "She has chosen a different path," he said, and that was the last on that subject.

"That's what drove you to drink?"

"Not quite. After I was promoted to Commodore Norrington, I learned how little room the position allows for mistakes. I led my crew to their deaths on a fool's errand across the sea, lost my title, lost everything."

Norrington, then. How've we come so far without me knowing his last name?

"But that is in the past now. Under certain conditions, I've been granted admiralty, and have a ship of my own again."

"It never really leaves you though, does it?" She hadn't meant to say the words aloud, but now that they were out, she'd finish her thought. "You see them when you close your eyes, every time you think you've gotten comfortable."

He looked up. "How do you—?"

"I've seen them, too."

They let the conversation fade, the steady purr of the waves taking over their words. He opened his arms to her, and she accepted, folding in close to his bare chest. It was nice in a domestic sort of way, being held and watching the water roll up and away. But her mind, always the traitor, insisted, This is not your place. You're only keeping his arms warm for someone else.

"I should go," she blurted, and the moment was shattered.

His arms tightened around her. "Have you somewhere to stay?"

"I'll find something," she lied, trying to wriggle free. She stood, looking down at him, the moment-after feeling more awkward than it ever had before. How do I usually do this? she found herself wondering. Shall I just leave him here, then?

He, too, must have been debating his next move, for he asked, "Why not stay here? With me."

"Here? On the beach?"

He seemed completely serious, pleasantly exhausted and content to just lie there in the sand. "If you like, you might use my coat as a blanket."

She shook her head in disbelief. "Honestly, you continue to surprise me."

"Is that a 'yes'?"

"Oh, alright." Sinking down cross-legged, she rolled her eyes. "You could use my skirt."

"Pardon?"

"As a blanket, I mean." She laughed. Taking him up on his offer, she wrapped the thick, woolen Navy coat around herself, tucking her arms into the sleeves. The fabric was scratchy on bare skin, but not unbearably so, and soon she found her eyes were beginning to close. She rested her head on his arm, curling in toward him, watching his chest rise and fall.

"James?" she asked.

"Hmm?"

"Could we...? Do you think...?" The questions faded out on her tongue. What are you waiting for? she chastised herself, Say something! "I could come with you, when you go back. No one would have to know what you've done, or where I come from. We could have a life, us two." She instantly felt a deep twist in her gut.

His face turned thoughtful, straight-lined features pinching inward.

Her skin prickled with cold sweat. "We could get by," she managed, weakly, the words feeling not quite her own.

He looked over, meeting her eyes, and grinned.

She felt her tension relax.

"You'd do that, for me? Give up your life to live somewhere you've never been with a near stranger?"

She nodded, beaming. She was illuminated from the inside; for a moment, she feared passing ships in the bay might confuse her for a lighthouse. Snuggling in closer, she shut her eyes, completely content. The breeze blew chill on her skin, but his coat kept her warm, and soon she tumbled headfirst into sleep beside him.

Bertie was the first to awaken. She blinked away sleep, rolling over to find a bare body pressed against her equally naked form. For the briefest moment, she tried to remember just how much she'd had to drink. That was about the only way she could imagine waking up next to someone. But when he rolled over, still sleeping, and she caught glimpse of his face, the past night came back to her in stunning detail. Untangling herself from him as gently as she could, she stood up, thankful for the privacy of the cove in her bare state. Getting her skirt free from around him took some work, but eventually she extracted it and quickly dressed herself.

Her warm mood still glowed in her chest. I should find him something nice before he sets off, she thought. There were always merchants and craftsmen along the beach in the early morning hours; perhaps something would catch her fancy.

Tucking his coat around him so he wouldn't have to wake up completely exposed, she set off, the money intended to pay her room last night tucked into her cleavage. She carried her shoes in hand so she could feel the warmed sand beneath her feet, until she came to the maze of boulders. Climbing up and back into the real world, she straightened her clothing and made for the central port. There, merchants and craftsmen tended to flock, selling trinkets for sailors to bring home to their lovers.

After a moment, the first of the line of small shacks and spread blankets came into view. Some sold food, others jewelry. Some sold exotic oils, others silk. One man sat under a shade with about twenty cages of parrots. She kept walking, coins jingling with every step. What could James possibly need? Surely, he was wealthy enough to afford anything he wanted. He was probably so wealthy he scorned such things as these.

By the intensity of the sun, she guessed it was not very late in the morning, maybe around eight. Still, the port came alive early; the little impromptu market buzzed with a sizable crowd. The swarm made her nervous in a way she couldn't place. She was nearly ready to turn around and give up when a man ushered her over.

"Miss, young miss, you must see these," he said, gesturing to a display of smooth, white pendants. "Scrimshaws, my own work. Legend has it that carrying one about can protect you from the wrath of the sea." He grinned and winked conspiratorially. "Got yourself a sweetheart? Make sure he comes home safe."

She paused. "Yes, I have. I—" she trailed off, distracted by a piece of bone inscribed with the delicate carving of a triple-masted ship upon the waves. "This is perfect."

As she hurried back to the beach, prize in hand, she smiled to herself. Me, a proper society woman! Me, his wife! She knew she must have looked a fool, walking along at a near skip, clutching hold of the scrimshaw on its leather cord, beaming like the sun, but she couldn't find it within herself to be bothered. The walk back to their makeshift camp flew by. She nearly fell down the boulder path on her way to him, skidding in the sand.

But where was he?

At first, she wondered whether she had come to the right spot, but then she saw their indents on the sand. She knelt down, glancing a sheet of stationary held down by several small rocks. Her heart, chilling with fear, warmed again when she read what he had written.

Dearest Beatrice,

My company has called me away immediately, as we set sail to Port Royal, and then away to Britain, this very morning. I hope my sincerest apology is enough to earn your forgiveness. Should you begin to doubt my intention, know this: upon the completion of my assignments in near three months time, I intend to return to you, and, should you acquiesce, marry you immediately upon arriving in Britain. Please do not lose hope. I shall count the days.

With my love,

James


	4. Just Pain, That's It

Morning saw the last of the sailors, those stragglers whose minds had been too clouded with last night's drink to catch their ships, scrambling about the docks. Most still half-drunk, they bobbled between the gangplanks of whichever ships remained, content to sign on to the first that would have them. Bertie, like the lot of them, suffered a morning-after headache made worse by the noise and the rays of the rising sun. Squinting, she tried to block it out as she scanned the horizon. Any day now, she thought, mentally counting the days. Near on four months, she figured, hand going to rest over the letter, which she kept firmly tucked in her cleavage. In the time since they had last met, she'd had a mite too much time to envision the future he had promised. Beatrice the married woman wore gowns of lace, draped herself in jewels whenever she attended exclusive parties. People addressed her as “ma'am”, curtsied when they were introduced. Central to her fantasies was James. She saw him in her mind, holding her arm, kissing her, unashamed to share her company. It was not a life she knew she wanted until it was within her reach.

 

As always, reality interrupted her daydreams as a clumsy drunkard tripped over her feet and nearly sent her spilling into the water. She caught herself on a rail. _See?_ She lectured herself, _that's what comes of silly thoughts. Distraction is dangerous._ A long-standing distraction, this James was. It seemed she'd thought of nothing else since he swore to be hers. Several words came to mind when she tried to name how she felt for him, but she instantly dismissed them all as folly, and stubbornly refused to call it anything but “distraction”. Just above the letter's hiding place, she wore his scrimshaw, the bone sun-warmed against her chest. Somehow, she doubted he would wear it, but perhaps he could be persuaded to carry it around with him in a pocket. He'd be needing it often, tied to the sea as he was.

 

She didn't pretend he would stay by her side constantly in their new life; she knew the Navy required him frequently. _But I require him frequently, too,_ she smirked. _Very frequently. Oh, and there's another thing: monogamy._ It was a concept her mind had lingered on lately, a possible con to the arrangement. She was good at her job, no one would deny it, and what's more, she enjoyed it. If she intended to have any luck at this new life, she'd have to make sacrifices. After all, she was proper now.

 

Her morning routine fruitlessly complete, she headed deeper into the tangled, rotting city in search of something to occupy her time. There was little by way of entertainment in Tortuga if one did not desire wenches and drink, and though Bertie would be the first to admit her own standards were lax, she still thought it far too early in the day for either of those pursuits. No, what she needed was theatre, or music, or at the very least, something to read, anything to distract her from the distraction.

 

She had tucked into a long alley when she heard raised voices behind her. Instinctively, she ducked behind the door of a shop, both to listen and to stay out of sight. As the voices neared, she overheard a man and a woman, arguing in harsh whispers. The man's voice was rough and lilted, and seemed accustomed to calling orders on a ship. He said, “I'll not ask ye again, Elizabeth, where is my map?” She, Elizabeth, spoke in a softer voice, though no less authoritative. “That's Miss Swann, and I haven't got it.”

 

Bertie jumped. _Miss Swann? Elizabeth Swann?_ It can't be. Here was her chance to satisfy her curiosity, possibly more than one if she knew where James was. She stepped from her hiding place. Instantly, two swords held her in place. She held her hands up. “Elizabeth Swann?” she asked.

 

Elizabeth fixed her with a glare. “Who are you?”

 

Bertie took a brief moment to look at the woman who shared her place in James's heart. _Not what I was expecting,_ she thought. In the past, she had often been chosen by sailors because she reminded them of someone back home. Obviously, such was not the case here. Elizabeth was near her opposite, lean where Bertie was stocky, fair-haired where Bertie had black curls, slim where Bertie was rubenesque. She was beautiful, in a wild, wind-whipped way, even when dressed in men's trousers. Not having prepared anything better to say, she blathered, “I'm a friend of James.”

 

“James who?” she asked suspiciously, though there was something in her eyes, something in the tilt of her head, that seemed off somehow.

 

Until that moment, Bertie had entirely forgotten James was a commonplace name, that every third man was a James. For her, there was only one. “James Norrington. He told me he...knows you.”

 

Ms. Swann's expression changed like the sea. First overtaken by a wave of disbelief---as if the James she knew, all proper and whatnot, would have no business cavorting with Bertie's type; of course, he really didn't---then something darker. The waves turned to the churning of a great sea storm.

 

She felt her own face fall. “Have you seen him?” Clinging to the hope that she misread that darkness in the other woman's eyes, she took a shaking breath.

 

The harshness of her posture sagged. “Oh, I'm sorry.”

 

_No, not this. Not this._

 

“James is...he's died.”

 

Whatever else she said was lost in the tide. Bertie tried to focus on something, Elizabeth's red eyes, the tears she repressed. The spinning of the world beneath the docks beneath her feet. She didn't stay around long enough to hear whatever Elizabeth shouted after her as she ran back down the alley, out of sight. She barely reached the rail before she vomited into the water, not stopping until she had to gasp for air. She breathed. Tears came thick and pouring, flowing down her cheeks and into her mouth. Her breathing was stilted, juddering sobs threatening to come up, but she forced herself to breath normally. She knew in the back of her mind she was making a scene, that the few remaining on the docks shook their heads at her, just another sad, sorry, drunken heartbreak in this town full of them. She didn't care.

 

Down to the beach she ran, full speed, the wind flipping her tears back across pale cheeks. When she reached the sand, down by where they had spent the night together, she collapsed into a ball, clutching the useless scrimshaw in her hands. _If I only could have gotten it to him, this never would have happened..._

 

Until she was empty, until the sun sunk below the line of the horizon, she cried. Every ragged breath felt like another assault on her raw throat. Her eyes burned, depleted of tears hours ago. When she unfolded herself and pulled to her feet, her legs nearly gave out beneath her.

 

_Stupid stupid fool,_ she spat at herself, _this is what comes of falling in love._ And just as she thought the word, she knew it to be true. She loved him, body and soul, and now he was gone. It drew a wail from deep in her chest, a gut-wrenching sob to rival any banshee in the dead of night. What was left for her here? In this town? In this world?

 

The ocean, crashing violently against the shore, welcomed her; for a moment, she nearly accepted its invitation. Halfway up to her waist in icy water, she paused. The moon glimmered from behind storm clouds, illuminating the foam riding in upon the waves. _Not this time, Bertie. Not today. The ocean will not have us both,_ she thought.

 

By the time she fell into an alleyway, exhausted, soaked, miserable, the sheer effort of staying awake became too much. She passed out rather than fell asleep, but her dreams still floated up from the depths like the bloated corpses of drowned sailors.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Waves slapped the side of the ship, crashing in and sucking out against the rotting wooden planks encrusted with barnacles. Above, a storm raged, clouds twisting into grotesque shapes, yet still clinging desperately to the rain, not spilling a drop. Bertie held the railing, facing out toward the disappearing mass of Tortuga. _Good riddance._

 

Before a week had passed since...well, since she learned, she'd jumped aboard the first cargo ship bound for Great Britain. She pressed a hand to the scrimshaw around her neck, holding tightly as the waves flung the massive vessel about like a child's toy.

 

The ache in her chest had not lessened even a little; some moments, it hurt so desperately she feared she would collapse. No drink was strong enough to clear her mind, and every street she traveled in the dirty little pirate town drove the stake further into her heart with every footstep. It was time to leave, to go home.

 

Perhaps she would be even more alone there, perhaps it wouldn't heal the heartbreak, but it was something. It was choosing a life.

 

Even at her most miserable, that streak of stubbornness would win out. She'd lived through her parents' murders, through begging for scraps on the streets, through a journey to foreign lands on her own without a shilling to her name, and she would live through this.

 

Poised at the beginning of a new future, she took a deep breath.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

~Finis~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A deep thank you to every single one of you who followed this story to its completion. I love you guys!!


End file.
